


The Shieldmaiden

by Mommui



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Gen, OCs - Freeform, Set inbetween Salamandastron and Redwall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22619575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mommui/pseuds/Mommui
Summary: An era of peace has blanketed over Mossflower Country, times of strife and war and disease long gone from the minds of those near Redwall Abbey. The sword of Martin has been lost for many seasons, there has been no need for it. However, when Mardr, the thief, comes from the south, who will be the Shield of Redwall?
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. A Storm to Welcome Autumn

**Prologue**

It was early Summer of the Fallen Oak. Southwards wavered in the shimmering heat, the green fields waving in the relieving breeze, and the warm nights following the soft twilight that arrived late in the day. Past the south border of Mossflower country, the sun stood tall over the battlefield. Vermin laid in heaps, dead, their weapons strewn everywhere. The few vermin that did not lay fallen quickly fled into the surrounding sparse woods. Woodlanders stood silent amidst it, breathing heavily until one spoke.

"Cadoc is dead! His army's defeated!" Cheers erupted then, otters, mice, hedgehogs, squirrels all joined in one mighty voice! Creatures dropped their weapons, embraced and wept.

Aredel the Axe stood with her back to the crowd, over the trembling figure of a pine marten. The squirrel's eyes were cold. Her axe shimmered in the heat. The broken body of Cadoc laid next to her, the deep cut of an axe in the warlords back.

She did not say anything as the pine marten fled. She did not give chase as Mardr ran into the woodlands amidst the cheers.

" _Cadoc is dead! Cadoc is dead!_ "

The words ingrained themselves onto Mardr's mind, " _Cadoc is dead! Cadoc is dead!_ "

**Book One**

_ The Scout and the Maiden _

  
** 1 **

  
There was a storm in Mossflower Country. It was late summer, the leaves soon to be turning into rich shades of red and carpet the forest floor. A thick cloak of black clouds swept over the countryside, hiding the pale sliver of moon hung in the sky. It was to be the last storm of the season, an end to the warm, festive nights and pleasant lazy afternoons. Harsh, hissing winds forced the woodland to sway violently. Rain, heavy as iron seeds, poured down onto the sleeping forms of forest and fields below; so thick and heavy that a creature could hardly see another in front of them.  
  
It howled over the countryside like a wild beast, over the gentle jewel of red sandstone that hid near the south border, over Mossflower forest, and over the great River Moss which split the countryside in two. Every creature of a sound mind had sought shelter earlier that day as soon as the first dark clouds appeared on the horizon. However, not every creature had found it.  
  
Deep within Mossflower, a squirrelmaid was lost, beset upon by nature's wrath. Dark clouds blocked the moonlight and the rain blinded her. further. She pushed rainwater out of her eyes, mixed with tears.  
  
Her paws were caked in mud and her fur was tangled in briars and burrs. Her wet fur felt heavy on her back. The squirrelmaid's thin figure trembled, exhausted. What a night it was, amidst storm!  
  
She carefully picked herself through the dark, blind to what roots or thorns awaited within to trip or maim. Her tail was held close around her waist, as young squirrels tend to do when they're frightened. Underneath it her satchel lay hidden. She was anxious to keep it dry. It contained parchments, a bottle of elderberry ink, and hard scones amidst other trinkets.  
  
The squirrelmaid had been traveling south, from along the north shore. She was joyful to be coming south again, missing the warmth of Mossflower. However, it seemed the violent weather of the north had followed her as wind hissed in her ear. It plastered cold rain against her back, soaking her fur to the roots. Now she tramped across the woodland, with no sense of direction except forward.  
  
 _BOOM!_  
  
Thunder crashed above her, sending chills down her spine as she anxiously felt her way. Her fur would be standing on end if it wasn't sopping wet. _CRAAACK!_ The forest was then suddenly outlined in a silvery white as lighting rent across the darkened sky! Startled, she felt her foot slip, catching mud then a root as she tripped and tumbled. _Thud! Thud! Thud_! The ground caught her multiple times, throwing her back into the air as she went downhill. She went head over tail over and over! Squirrels are known as expert climbers, easily recovering from falls but natural instincts failed to save her!  
  
Her whole body stopped suddenly with a dull thud. The squirrelmaid's senses abandoned her, the world a haze of sensations. Everything outside was a dull hum to her now. The rain seemed a world away now, as her exhaustion finally overtook her.

* * *

  
Rain danced down the sides of the great fire mountain Salamandastron. Even this mystical place was not free from the wrath of storm. It stood strong in the tempest, like a slumbering giant. Within the fortress, a few beasts from the nearby forest and shore milled about the main banquet hall of Salmandastron. It was an impressive hall, with large wooden tables made of pine and a warm fire that crackled within a large stone fireplace. The mantle was decorated with carvings of hares and badgers and victories of battles long past. The hall was connected to the main hall, which was even more massive and contained the great anvil of the badgerlords, and the kitchens (A much more impressive place to hares).  
  
As soon as the line of dark clouds appeared on the horizon line many of them had come seeking shelter. Not a sound of the storm outside could be heard, save the dull hum of rain. The hares of the mountain zipped in between various creatures, from moles to mice to hedgehogs (of which the hares were partially careful around) to shrews. Everything felt safe within the embrace of Salmandastron.  
  
In the north part of the room, Badgerlord Pinebuck Wippskit sat in a large armchair made for his great size, dibbuns gathered around him in awe and bemusement. After all, Badgers were rare and few between to most, some even believing them to be fables to scare vermin. In truth, Pinebuck was a fair member of his species, large with black fur and a striped white muzzle. His limbs were strong and robust, contrasted by his belly that bulged outward ever so slightly. However, the thing everybeast noticed of him was his eyes, they were oddly gentle for a badgerlord. The faintest hint of sapphire hid within there, sparkling when the light caught them nicely. They were the eyes of a babe, curious and joyous about life's wonders.  
  
The badger moved his large stripped head exaggeratedly around and wide-eyed in the same manner as the dibbuns, as if the young creatures had just appeared out of thin air and were just as rare, if not more-so. His voice was loud, uproarious, as if everything was secretly a game he was playing.  
  
"Oh ho ho! Who do we have here? Now I've never seen a jolly beast of your kind before!" He playfully touched a young hares' ears, seemingly amazed by their length. "My, my, If only I had ears like these. Nary a thing would escape me."  
  
The young child giggled, imagining the badger with long, long ears. She pushed away his large paw, "Yore lyin'! You got hares all around ye flippin' biggun!" Pinebuck looked stunned at this revelation,  
  
"Oh, so I have, gel! What a lucky beast am I!"  
  
The badger leaned close to another dibbun, a small fat rat with spots on his forehead, loudly whispering so the others could still hear him. "Or unlucky, depending on how much you like tah' eat!" The young hare's face soured, while the other children giggled loudly. Pinebuck's buoyant laughter joined theirs, only further making every beasts mind drift away from thoughts of the storm outside.

* * *

  
In the upper levels of Salmandastron, Pinebuck's laughter echoed through the halls and rooms as hares trounced about with errands to do and doings to errand. Maggery was idling at one of the few uncovered windows, watching the rain drip, drip, drip onto the ledge. The only other sounds within the room was the crackle of the fire slumbering within the small red sandstone fireplace and the impatient soft _Thud, thud, thud_ of Maggery's footpaw. She was a young hare, fit and able in body and wildly ambitious in mind, and, like other young creatures, unable to sit still while it was raining outside.  
  
The boredom hung heavy on her. The haremaid let out a long, exaggerated sigh, her ears drooping. A strong wind blew into her face from outside, as if in response, brushing her whiskers into her face. Half of them were singed, from a mistake in the forge that she swore wasn't her doing. Maggery sputtered, huffing and glaring out the window as if any creature was there. From across the room, a stern voice pulled the haremaid's back straight.  
  
"Maggery McHathery Meadowcream! Stop pouting like a babe at the windowsill and get on yor' paws!" A much older hare marched up to her, his whiskers curled flamboyantly upward. What a child she still was. "I need you to help the kitchens, gel."  
  
Maggery met her father's gaze, "With what?"  
  
Major Marder Maxwell Meadowcream eyes wandered to her whiskers before he spoke, "I need you to count the number of creatures down there in the Banquet hall. Make sure you double check I don't any beast left out!" The copper medal on his chest shone in the firelight. It was an errand, at best, to keep her from moping like she always does while it rains. "Understand Maggery?"  
  
Maggery saluted smartly to her father. "Aye sir!" The haremaid had a robust frame, with brown grey fur. She stood a bit shorter than the older hare, ears included of course.  
  
"Good." He looked back at her before he left the room. "Oh, and Maggery?"  
  
"Don't go into the forge again, at least without someone else, wot." He left mumbling to himself, she had to learn to be a bit more careful if she was going to be a long patrol hare. Maggery paid no mind to the last remark. She was eagerly thinking about the task, allowing it to take her mind off the endless storm outside and the coming dawn.

* * *

  
In the banquet hall, dibbuns and adults alike gathered around the chair of Badgerlord Pinebuck. They listened as his words began to thread together into tales of warrior squirrels, cruel slavers, and days of war, unknown to the young that lived in relative peace. Maggery listened intently, barely remembering to count the number of woodlanders present.  
  
The Badgerlords voice echoed, boisterous and deep.  
  
" _Long ago_ , several seasons after our era of peace had begun; even though the likes of the Dryditch fever had disappeared from the thoughts of Mossflower it still struck at the north.  
  
The Jukka, a long-lived tribe of squirrel warriors, now but a few, fell ill. They put their hopes onto one, a mighty squirrelmaid, fierce in battle and known for her quickness, Aredel the Falling Axe!"  
  
The haremaid was enthralled, tales of heroes long past always did so. Salamandastron was not the busiest place at the time, few vermin dared to come to the shores of Mossflower. Pinebuck had since been focusing on the surrounding countryside, aiding those close to Salamandastron and frequent visits to Redwall Abbey. He was known as Pinebuck the Kind. Just as Boar was the Fighter, and Urthwyte was Mighty.  
  
However, times of peace made young creatures long to wander. Even the scouting the haremaid did was not enough to sate it.  
  
"Don't you dare think of going out in this storm, Maggery." An aging haremum, named Regan, stood beside her, a stained wooden spoon in her paw. She pointed it at Maggery. "I know that look in yore eye!" She shook her head, "That Pinebuck o' mine keeps filling yore head with flamin' stories of nonsense, wot!"  
  
Maggery responded quick, "They're not nonsense!" Thump! Her ears drooped as she was tapped between them "…marm."  
  
"They are when they make young beasts run off from their mothers!" The haremum huffed, "But that's neither hare nor there right now, young'in. Have you counted our guests?"  
  
Maggery blinked, she had completely forgotten! She looked around, hurriedly counting mouse, shrew, hedgehog, and any creature nearby. "Erm…Yes marm, fifteen including the dibbuns." Maggery hoped.  
  
Regan nodded, satisfied. "Thank yah' Maggery. Now, could a _strong_ young leveret like yourself help me carry the plates out?" She smiled softly at the haremaiden. "We've got yore and Pinebuck's favorite desert tonight, raspberry turnovers!"  
  
Maggery grinned widely, the first time that night. The compliment from the haremum made her feel so proud! She puffed out her chest. "Of course, I will marm!"  
  
Regan chuckled at the young Maggery's excitement, the haremaid running into the kitchens ahead of her. She watched Pinebuck for a minute longer, still enveloped in telling his story, before she followed suite.  
  
What a night it was going to be! Full of friends, food, and tales of adventure!


	2. Nestled in the Walls of Redwall Abbey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm continues, over Mossflower Country. Brothers meet again after summer ends. The bells of Redwall Abbey can be heard through the thunder, as creatures find things taken when they shouldn't be.

** 2 **

Across Mossflower country, in the lower northern region of the wood, the sounds of thunder were dull hums from within a small holt neatly dug into the side of the riverbank. The reeds that framed the shore bent against the wind, victims of the storm showing its rage at the season ending.

A low fire crackled in the center of the room, innocent to the storm outside. It was usually reserved for cooking and light, but now it was being used to dry pieces of wet clothing.

In truth it was a simple, but mighty comforting, dwelling. Being carved out of the riverbank, it was one wide room. Wide wood planks were placed onto portions of dirt to serve as a suitable floor, woven otter rugs sitting on top of them. The ceiling was a collection of intertwined tree roots, tactfully placed stones, cautiously installed supports, and packed dirt.

Shelves were dug into the dirt and lined with baked mud tile, bottles of either medicine or drink and the keepsakes of past summers laying upon them. This holt was once home to whole collections of otter families and tribes, but now it was home to only one.

* * *

Roottail Dawntide, a large otter by anybeast’s opinion, stared into the fire, a paled jerkin wrapped around his ample frame. His brow was furrowed and cast downward, a pipe nestled between his lips and resting on his pawtips. With a satisfying crackle, the fire began to glow brighter as wood was tossed into it. Two shadows were cast on the wall, one for Roottail and one for his brother. The large river otter grumbled politely, not shifting his gaze from the fire.

Skipper Barklen Dawntide settled on the other side with his paws on his crossed knees, the way the Skippers would during an important gathering. The otter had a naturally stern face, with neatly trimmed whiskers enveloping the entire lower half of his face. A square eyepatch fit snuggly over his right eye, leftover from the wild days of youth. He allowed the fire to warm him and dry his damp fur.

“Just me’ luck to be caught up in a storm when we’re returnin’ from the shore, isn’t it matey?” He chuckled heartily, despite worry pricking his thoughts like briar.

“Oh aye.” Roottail replied flatly, not bothering to return the warm grin of his brother. He took a puff from the pipe he held. “You’ve always had the clouds chasin’ ya’ matey.” Earthy smoke rolled from the otter’s nostrils. The older otter had always found himself in many a rocky water. It was part of why the older otter had become Skipper, always so resilient, unlike his brother.

“I hooked a lively one then, judging from how wet this old coat is!” The otter breathed deeply, his strong shoulders dipping. “I pity any beast stuck in that roight now!”

Roottail looked at him through half-lidded eyes, “You were one of those beasts just a breeze ago, rudderhead.” Barklen was still wet, despite how quickly otter fur dried. The beast dripped the stuff like a cracked bucket.

“So I was! Yah’ missed a legend-worthy Hullabaloo, the north clans came down and shared their ales. That lot makes some drinks that really kick yah’!” He shook his fur emphasizing this, water droplets spraying everywhere. “Wooogh! Makes me warmer just thinkin’ of em!”

Roottail sighed, letting out a stream of smoke, remembering the past summer. The Hullaballo, an otter tradition where numerous otter tribes gather and celebrate, share tales, and reunite with friends. It only happened every few summers. His face slumped with grimace; the otter’s summer was spent idling. It was a fair summer, but nothing compared to the Hullaballo.

“You should have come with us, Roottail. Everybeast asked about yah’! The Riverdog clan was hoping to see if ye’ had grown any bigger!” Barklen plead more than he spoke. The Dawntide clan was not the same without its mountain of an otter. “I ask ye’,brudder, won’t you join the ottercrew again, this season? Ye’ can’t keep idling, wasting away with worry and tears!”

He motioned to the snoring form enveloped in his shadow, their mother, a wisened and greying otter wrapped tightly in blankets. She had fallen asleep as soon as the rain started, as she always did.

“The whole crew and us can all watch over mum together! I know they’d readily ignore her snorin’ if they even got a whiff of her soup!”

Roottail huffed, ignoring his older brother’s attempt to humor him, the otter’s voice was deep like the River Moss.

“I can’t. I trust the crew to watch mum. But what if she returns, and I’m not here? I want to welcome her back, in her home.”

Skipper stomped his paw. “Yah’ ain’t abandoning it Roottail! S-She will go to ol’ Redwall if ye’ not ‘ere, you’re only hurtin’ yourself! You can’t expect me to let you stay in here? I know you feel bad, but it’s doin’ nothing but bubblin’ sitting ‘ere!”

Roottail knew that his brother was worried over him, he had made that evident enough. He would likely continue pursuing the matter until something changed. He was brooding on this thought, watching the flames dancing. It had felt like seasons, weighed with grief.

Grief does that to a beast.

Roottail was always so trusting, especially in his brother who had always carried the weight of responsibility on his back. Yet he could wait, and wait, without yearning for another thing to do, as long as he hoped _she_ would return.

“I will think on it brother.” He said simply, still stubborn. Roottail’s face softened, “I’ll think on what yah said.”

Barklen stared down at his brother, looking into the otter’s dark, tired eyes. The firelight shone off them, the vigor of life still warm behind despite the cloak of sadness that shrouded them. The Skipper would drink ale that night to warm his own.

“That’s all I want, yah’ overgrown babe!” He pointed with his rough hand to the holt’s entrance, “If there wasn’t this storm goin’ outside, I was plannin’ to drag you outta of here by ya’ rudder! I would of taken ye’ big self-down to that abbey and have them stuff ya’ full of trifle till ye’ grinned, matey!”

Roottail breathed in the pipe, letting out a slow column. He lazily grinned at his brother after a short cough. “Like ye’ can even lift my rudder. You lot heading down to Holt Riverford then? If you’re wantin’ to be around Redwall.”

“Aye. The one a ways behind that old church, I think it’s called like… Saint Noneyahs?” Barklen let his brothers jest roll off his slick back.

“Saint Ninians.”

“Aye, that’s the one! I worry about them folk, always opening their gates for any old beast. They’ve been soft’d by the summer heat! What if they let some vermin in and that nice, old abbey is ransacked? I couldn’t forgive me’self! After they always treat me and the ottercrew so nicely.”

“I wouldn’t worry. No beast has had the thought to harm for those lot for ages, no creature would dare harm a mouse that wears their green ‘abit. Myself has not been there in a good season or two. It makes me’ heart heavy, the last time I was behind the front gate was with…”

Roottail found himself leading off. Sadness has a way to sneak in when it is least wanted, like a thief in a stronghold. He dabbed at his eyes with a little dandelion-yellow handkerchief procured from his jerkin.

“Ah, let me put some vittles on the fire, matey. It’s rude if I let ye’ go all night without eatin’. This storm makes it impossible for ye’ to go off.”

“Aye, mate. Take ye’ time, I’m in no rush.” His brother barked, an order rather than a simple suggestion. He blinked as a drop of water fell from the ceiling onto his head, having managed through the layers of dirt and root.

* * *

The dusty pink of Redwall Abbey’s outer walls became a muddy orange underneath the pouring storm that crowded the sky. Not a creature dared to be up on the wall or amongst the lawns, a combination of storm and night made them uninviting to all. It’s just not comfortable to be both in the dark and soaking wet, your fur soaking wet without an idea where to go! The sound of the old bell rang through the yard between the quakes of thunder that lit up the bottoms of the clouds, beckoning any nearby creature shelter from the wet fit.

The soft murmur of rain on the abbey’s walls made for a nice lullaby for some creatures. The dibbuns, the old, and those naturally inclined to be calm and wistful. However, for others it made them restless and eager to occupy themselves with other things. The Great Hall echoed with the sounds of late-night activity from the Cavern Hole. The jolly guffaws of older creatures drinking, paws on the cool sandstone floors of the Abbey, and the crackle of the fireplace; despite the warm, while wet, summer night outside, the interior of Redwall was a tad chill.

The Great Hall was dark, the only natural light the placid, muddled blue of the evening outside as it beamed in from the narrow stained-glass windows high in the wall. The large door made of oak that led to the front lawn was latched tight, offering no wind or stray debris entrance. It rattled as the gale pushed against it, like an eager audience for the legendary hospitality of Redwall Abbey.

Despite the uproarious noise that was occurring outside, the shrill rapping of a small paw on the abbey door still echoed through the hall. Joel Spurrspike’s ear perked up as he was walking through. The wide hedgehog had just come up from the cellars, he was the Cellarhog after all, his apron snugly fit around his dark green habit of the elders of Redwall. He had just checked up on his various barrels, bubbling with new wines, cordials, and ales made from last season’s produce.

He turned on his heel, waddling towards the door with a grin. As soon at the hedgehogs paw undid the latch, the door flew open as a gust of hit it, blowing in the soaking figure of a young dripping wet mouse in the light green of a novice. The satisfying sound of the Great Hall door slamming shut followed, Joel leaned against it huffing out a ragged breath. The latch was quickly, well, latched again.

The hedgehog eyed it suspiciously, “’Oh by my spines, I’ll have to make sure to check this door tomorrow, this storm very well might blow it down before the nights over with!” He looked over at the soaked mouse, their hood still up, “It’s quite old wood you know, been here since the Abbey was founded. I’d hate to see it splinter or break.”

Thistle pulled his hood down, his velvety ears popping up as water dripped from his whiskers. A curious look hung on the young fieldmouse’s face, “Is that true, Brother Joel?” He was always interested in Abbey history, the only class he paid full attention to in abbey school.

The hedgehog scoffed, “Of course it’s true! I’ve been around the barrels enough that I know my wood.” His paw rapped the door quickly, sending another echo across the empty Great Hall. His chubby face grinned as he realized what he done. “You done ringing that bell, Thistle?”

The mouse had become distracted by the echo and the colors being shone onto the sandstone floor, his paws cleaning off his whiskers. Certainly, Thistle believed Joel, the Cellarhog was a wise creature if not a bit too jovial.

“Yes, Brother Joel. Though I doubt any beast is going to brave the storm to come here, if they hadn’t already.” Many a creature had already found a snug bed waiting for them when they arrived earlier this evening, families of mice, shrews, some rabbits, and countless others that Thistle had not seen personally.

Joel winked at the lad, walking past him deeper into the hall. “Better to be sure than to be wonder though. Come on, let’s get you out of that wet habit before you drip all over the abbey!”

Thistle followed him without a thought, the wet slap of his sandals upon the stone making a steady rhythm behind the hedgehog. _Slap,Slip,Slap,Slip_ The mouse looked at the stained glass windows as the pair walked, looking at the mice, squirrels, hares, and other creatures that have been important to Redwall Abbey. Thistle knew a fair amount of them, though some still alluded his mind.

“Has Abbess Burrprick gone to bed already?”

The hedgehog guffawed. his laughter bouncing off the walls of the Great Hall, “Of course lad, you know her. She’s the type to go to bed early, but the first one to rise!” He shook his spikes, “Couldn’t be me in any season, I prefer a nice long nap!”

“I think everybeast does, Brother Joel” Thistle replied simply. The mouse could not deny his agreement. “My tails twisted in worry thinking about ol’ Pumpkin in that gatehouse during this.”

Joel put his paw on the young creature’s back reassuringly, “Bless ye heart, don’t worry your little head about Brother Pumpkin, that gatehouse won’t be coming down until the wall does. I assure you, he’s in that gatehouse just snoozin’ away.”

Thistle was not worried about the gatehouse collapsing, more so the fact that the old recorder was alone in that little dwelling of his, a whole lawn away from the main abbey. The older hedgehog put a paw between the creature’s ears, disturbing the slick, icy fur.

“Upstairs with ye’. Best worry for yourself catching a cold before you worry about a shrew with several seasons behind ‘im.”

The young fieldmouse followed up the stairs, his sandals squishing with every step upward. The cool moonlight of the Great Hall remained silent, only the echoes of the Cavern Hole to occupy it. Just beyond the staircase, deeper into the ends of the Great hall, was the tapestry of Martin of Warrior. The pale blue light shone on the aged cloth, highlighting the sword of Martin and the victorious pose the warrior mouse struck. The age of warriors was the past for Redwall Abbey.

* * *

Friar Magnolia poked their head under another table, their large, floppy hat sagging onto the table’s edge. It was the hat of the Abbey’s main cook, a worn old thing that was apt for replacement. The shrew was in their night shirt, creating an amusing image between the faded hat and the fresh cleaned smock. Their nose wiggled angerly, annoyed at the situation they found themselves in. The shrew had looked in every cabinet, pantry, and container in the kitchen, on top of every surface, and underneath them too! They stamped their paw against the cool sandstone floor.

“I can’t find my knives anywhere! I’m tellin’ you Castor, someone’s taken my best knives! Not to mention my favorite ones.” The shrew huffed.

The shrew usually was not prone to frustration (at least that’s what they told themselves), however messing with a shrew’s kitchen is just downright disrespectful!

Castor chattered, bemused. “Now now, don’t jump to saying someone stole them. One of younger creatures might have just borrowed them.”

The shrew’s eyes grew large as saucers. “Now that’s even worse! Takin’ my best kitchen knives and dulling the blade just to fool around! You wouldn’t believe how long it takes to get the blades sharp as I like ‘em!”

"Of course I do! I’m the one who has to do it for yah!” Thump! The beaver smacked his flat tail against the ground, a cloud of forgotten flour rising from the old stone. It was barley flour from the mill mice who lived off the River Moss, Magnolia had grown fond to it in place of the sunflower seed flour the abbeydwellers ground. It was much more suited for thicker breads made for broth sponging.

Magnolia wagged a paw at Castor, “Don’t go actin’ like you get nothing from me for doing it! I used my best blueberries from the summer harvest on your tarts!” The beaver was brushing flour off his large, flat tail returning it to the stone from whence it came and will stay. That is, until some beast finally took a broom to the old floor.

“Well, well, If I find your knives, I better get a full pie to myself!” The beaver smirked at the mere thought before Magnolia’s hat hit him square in the snout.

The shrew was frustrated enough to throw their hat at the creature twice their height! “That’s only if you manage to find them and stop thinking about your stomach!” Magnolia let out a long yawn, “Oh bother, forgive me my friend, I’m a bit worked up. Perhaps it’d be better if I just go to bed and look in the mornin’.”

Castor nodded as he picked the drooping hat off his muzzle and hung it on a hook. “Nothin’ like a good nap to get your spirit up.” The beaver put his paw on the shrew’s back, leading him out of the kitchen. “Perhaps you’ll be more agreeable towards my pie suggestion in the mornin’ light!” He said.

“When your tail’s as round as an otter’s rudder I will.”

“Oh come now! You make all kinds of things for Burrprick without her even asking ye’!” The beaver whined.

“She’s the abbess! I’m supposed to let her wilt away without 4 meals a day?” Magnolia pointed their paw at their large, brown furred friend. “And ye’ best start saying Abbess Burrprick!”

Castor chattered again, pulling the small shrew close to him. The beaver knew this was just the weariness talking, or at least that is what he told himself. The shrew had been working in the kitchen’s all day, the typical business of Redwall’s kitchens with the addition of all the residents of Mossflower Country visiting would wear out anybeast! Dinner has concluded barely a few hours ago. He rubbed the back of Magnolia’s back with his paw. Magnolia slumped back into it, oh my, they were more tired than they realized!

“Now, now, little shrew, don’t be so tight-tailed! You said it yourself, it is time for bed for you. Let’s find a spot in the Cavern Hole, where you can watch the kitchen still _._ ”

Magnolia nodded along to his large companion’s words. They were wise ones as the night deepened. The kitchens of Redwall Abbey was connected to the Cavern Hole through two well-aged doors. The Cavern Hole then connected to the Great Hall with a set of several stairs, each marked by a single, large carved in letter that spelt REDWALL from the bottom up. The Cavern Hole, by far the largest single area inside the Abbey, was packed tightly this evening. The fires burned low and warm, throwing dim light on the already paled walls.

Dozens of young and middle-seasoned creatures huddled together in various groups, all around the large room. They were drinking, idling, and snoozing. Summer nights were still comfortably warm, enough paired with the low fire that many did not feel the need for blankets even on the cool stone of the Cavern Hole. Snoring bounced off the whiskers of the slumbering creatures and onto the walls.

The only ones still up being the few who preferred the stillness of night, could not sleep from worry, or simply were enjoying the company of other creatures. It was not every day the whole of Mossflower were gathered in Redwall. They would sleep late the next morning, not that would bother any of the Redwallers. Not when they do it too!

Stray eyes watched as the pair meandered from the kitchens, with curiosity rather than malice or fear. Such things were not done in Redwall Abbey. Castor laid himself down not minding resting against the stone. The beaver was about the size of a full-grown badger, though the flat tail on his backside helped a fair bit. This made Magnolia seem even smaller than the shrew usually looked, only coming up to Castor’s lower waist.

Even though the night was still young, the sound of the muffled rain outside, the background of gentle beasts snoring, the low murmur of chatter, and the sharp crackle of low fire making the Cavern Hole dim and pleasant all made the beavers eyelids flutter. It was a mystery how anybeast could stay awake in such a place, to Castor. Perhaps mingling with the countryfolk could wait for the morning.

Yes, absolutely for the morning.

* * *

Joel had thrown Thistle’s sopping wet habit in with the ones to be washed, typically the ones the dibbuns wore that were stained with berries, dirt, and had holes to be repaired. Tomorrow they would all be hung out on the laundry poles, left to drip onto the grass until they were dried by the breeze.

The spare habits of Redwall were kept in the same room that was used to wash in, frequented by the dirty dibbuns. There were two round wooden tubs, a cabinet that housed everything a beast would need or want for a nice soak, and two windows that let the sunlight in quite nicely around morning and midday. In the eastern window, there was a little pulley contraption with rope rung around it, attached to a bucket that dipped into the Abbey pond when lowered.

Castor and Joel had made it, after Brother Apple and Sister Hamish had complained about dragging buckets of water up the stairs from the well in the cellars every time they needed to wash the dibbuns. Castor quickly did it after _he_ got tired of bringing buckets up. Right now, the window was closed tight, the rope bundled up resting inside the wooden bucket.

Thistle pulled the light green habit over his ears, draping the garment over himself. This was rather easy, as the habit hung off the mouse’s small frame. It only barely stopped short of his heels. He looked at the hedgehog confused.

“If you can walk in it, it’ll be fine for tonight. It would be no good having you trip over yourself when ye’ wake up!” Joel chuckled, the candle he held wavering as he moved. The mouse took an experimental step away from the candle, his footpaw pressing against cool stone. He had always felt nervous around open flame, an instinctual reaction.

“We’ll just have to leave your sandals up here until the morning, they’ll be dry then.”

Thistle nodded at this, never one to question. “Thank ye’, Brother. I am grateful to be out of that wet habit, felt it was suffocating me it was so heavy with water!” He pulled a towel over his head, his ears flattened as he tried to dry his fur.

Joel grinned at the young abbeydweller, “It’s no trouble. Ye’ can repay me by helping me find my hammer tomorrow, I’ve gone and misplaced it somewhere!” The hedgehog scratched his chin with a paw, “One minute, it was sittin’ next to me on the lawns while I fixed the gatehouse door and then it must have walked off. I do have more, but they’re not my favorite, hard as they try.”

The mouse’s face peeked from the confines of the fluffy material, “Maybe somebeast thought it was misplaced? Or one of the dibbuns found it and lost it outside while playing with it, could that be it Joel?”

The Cellarhog did not look convinced, grimacing.

“Agh, maybe but I’ve got a bad feeling in my spines. Though it might just be me, worried my hammers going to be covered in two layers of rust before we find it!”

Thistle draped his damp towel over the edge of the empty tub, a bar of rosemary soap still hiding in the bottom. He was curious to ask the hedgehog if these tubs were as old as the Abbey’s front door but kept it for another time. “We’ll look for it tomorrow while everybeast is checking on the orchard and things.”

“Ooh, Magnolia will be roight ticked if the trees have been messed with.” Joel shook his head, imagining the little shrew red furred. Shrews were so easily angered. He walked to the open doorway, still shaking his spiky head. “Come on, I was going to the Cavern Hole before you distracted me! I wanted to make sure all the older creatures found their ways upstairs. Us young folk might have no problem sleeping on the ground, but some of the older forestdwellers have a bit more…issue. That’s the right word.”

Thistle stared at the broken moonlight that managed to find its way between the window cracks and onto the washroom floor. The rain, the clouds, the wind all managed to show themselves in that thin beam. He followed quickly after the hedgehog’s wavering flame, holding up the folds of his habit to avoid tripping over himself. The snores and squeaks of sleeping beasts occupied the second floor of Redwall Abbey, the long shadows of a hedgehog and a mouse creeping along the walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This years been...pretty odd, I must say! Chapter 3 will hopefully be up sooner than this one was!


	3. The Night Thief of Southsward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mossflower Country is a disappointment for thieves who are used to large castles and clans.

** **

** 3 **

Mardr has always been a thief, it was a badge of honor for the pine marten! While his brother had gone off and amassed armies, the slinky little vermin had spent his time swiping pouches and nicking food out of creature’s pantries.

His name hung in the air when spoken in Southsward!

They knew to keep their doors locked and latches down, lest they wish for him to slip through the cracks! He could scale walls, slink through the shadows of the afternoon, slip under gates, and leap moats! He was Mardr, the night thief of Southsward!

Now forced North, into the rural countryside, alone. It would make any self-respecting creature weep!

The south is where he belonged, not in these cool flatlands. He was a southern pine marten, his sparse, short fur dark as the darkest oak. A spot of gold hid under his chin, about as large and round as a coin. He had grown smaller and thinner than other pine martens, the rare few that decided to prance around the region. He was no warrior beast. Across his collar spanned a horizontal scar, marking the sole time a beast had caught the scoundrel! He had eluded the Dark Forest he told himself, he told others.

The rain slicked back his fur, its color turning darker still, black as shadow. The pine marten’s cloak stuck to his frame, it was too short for him for it had belonged to a hedgehog. His paws dug into the mud as he hoisted a bag onto the surface from the roots of a tree. It clinked and clunked with metal striking its brethren. He had hidden it only a moon or two ago, but the storm made the thief worry.

He grunted and strained, it had been easier to push it down there than it was getting it out. With a yank, it breached the surface. He hoisted it over his shoulder, his long body slumping under the weight. Every step sunk him deeper into mud, his loose kilt’s edges staining. He grumbled, snarled at the feeling. The wind raked through his coat like a jagged comb.

This region was a disappointment. Southsward had castles, ancient clans, and vermin hordes. Bah! This simple countryside had none of it. Nobody cared for gold or jewelry, it was nothing more than silly shiny nonsense to these bumpkins! They’d sooner value the ale in a silver goblet higher than the goblet itself! 

They couldn’t understand the craftsmanship, the way the light played on it, the status it gave you. The pure beauty of a ruby sculpted by the ground, then finished by the skilled paws of a craftsbeast. Not that Mardr ever got to wear such things, for Cadoc got the first pawfuls of anything taken.

The wealthiest building for miles was the old abbey, it’s bell ringing into the night air punctuated by thunder. The tales of that place were whispered between vermin, of treasures within the walls. Of magic swords that sliced through the air, ghosts that slid through walls, and vittles oh so decadent and mouthwatering! The vermin in this region simply wanted for food and drink, nothing more in their eyes.

Life was nothing more to them!

Not a creature saw the pine marten and his bag as he made his way through the storm at a grueling pace. He appeared only when lightning retched itself across the sky, lighting up the forest with him! At last, the shape of an overhang flashed in the distance. Deep within Mossflower, the remains of places long since forgotten sat idle in the storm. rain dripped off the edge of an overhang, making the rock shine as lighting flashed across the sky. Beneath it sat an opening to a cave, dug into the earth.

The rain paused its barrage on his fur as he slipped under. Mardr shuddered with chill, everything about him dripping water onto stone and scarce rocky grass.

 _Crash!_ The sky awakened with light, lining his figure!

“Will ya just come in before ya get sick, ya ‘eavy-headed shadow!” Grittail yelled at the skulking vermin, the marten wrenched from his thoughts. The rat tapped his paw impatiently, a grimace held firmly on his features. He was plump, with a natural sneer stuck upon his snout. His tail was like old, petrified wood.

A pitiful fire shined behind the rat, made of damp wood and stone. More vermin were in the cave- some watching the rain as it fell while others occupied themselves with sleep- all idling, their bodies lit by the warm glow. No other creature held more than a curious glance to Mardr.

The pine marten’s nose wrinkled in response, “I’m going to ya’ fool!” He snarled. He would of brandished his Scimitar at the insolent rat, his prized weapon he had swiped from the disgusting corsairs, if his paws weren’t full. It was held to his belt by a sheath, the hilt topped by a jeweled eye. “Move aside! Unless ye’ want to be hit by me loot first then me blade!”

Grittail rolled his eyes, like the beast would bother! Mardr pushed past him, shoving the rat into a stoat, and went deeper into the cave. _Thunk!_ He threw the bag onto the ground, his wiry body slumping against it. His blade slid from its sheath and against the cave floor, echoing throughout.

* * *

Mooneye grumbled as Grittail scrambled up right from on top of the stoat, eyeing the pine marten. The stoat had only one eye, the other forever a cloudy, milky white. The creature was limber, like stoats naturally are, his fur unclean, wrapped in a dirty cloth that once was white. He looked dumbly at Grittail.

“What’s he doin’ ‘ere?” asked the stoat.

The rat sneered, “Only place to go during this. He’s an odd sort, ya better just ignore him.” Of course, Grittail didn’t say this loud enough for Mardr to hear. That would be foolish.

Mooneye whined, “It’s ‘ard to ignore ‘im!”

Grittail nodded, “Aye, but you best shut yore’ gob and keep your chin up else he’ll hear ya’. I don’t want to be mangled in the rain cause of yore complain’”

The stoat shrunk at his comrades remarks, “Eugh, fine Gritty, but if you start complain’ you best shut yore gob too!” Mooneye tapped the rat on the nose sharply with the flat of his dagger. The rat’s paws moved quickly to shield his nose from further beratement.

“That’s not somethin’ called for yah’ woodhead!” Grittail huffed smartly. The rat wandered away from the stoat, not bothering to retaliate such a meaningless gesture. What use would it be to get into a fight that wouldn’t benefit either side? However, the stoat followed him insistently.

“What yah’ think he’s thinkin’ about?” Mooneye stated, looking behind the two of them again.

Grittail sighed, “I don’t know! Why would I know?”

The stoat grumbled, wanting an answer. He didn’t bother to ask Gritty again or even attempt to ask Mardr. They knew not to bother Mardr if it doesn’t concern him. Mooneye wouldn’t call ‘em chief, but he was the only one around with a sword. He looked up at the water dripping from the ceiling, a drop landing between his eyes. “…Why do yah’ think it rains?”

“Why would I know that?” The rat answered, annoyed.

“You did say ya’ were edu-yu-cated and all that businesh” Thickwhisker said pointedly from the edge of the cave as she carved a bit of wood, the ferret’s overcrowded whiskers bobbing. They always bobbed when she did anything. The wood was the dry leftovers of a past fire, now an idle pastime for the vermin.

“That doesn’t mean I know why the sky spits water!” Grittail snapped back. Thickwhisker snickered, her whiskers bouncing. _Schik, Schik, Schik_. The sound of her old knife carving wood echoed through the cave as thin strips fell onto the floor. They would be thrown into a fire later with her creation. She didn’t know what she was making, it usually just ended up as _something_.

She pointed her knife idly at the rat. “Then what do ye’ know? I bet its nothin’!” Thickwhisker sneered “Your ‘eads just full of pebbles!”

Grittail puffed his chest up, “I- I know how to tell good fruit from bad ones, and which herbs are safe, and the ones ye’ use tah’ make up a wound-” He stated proudly.

Mooneye blinked, “But I taught ye’ how tah’ do those things Grittail.”

 _Shinnnkkkkk!_ Mardr’s blade slide against the stone.

Grittail whipped his head around, “Shaddup, ye oaf!”

Thickwhisker howled with laughter, her sharp ferret teeth gleaming in firelight. Her tube-like body whipped and wiggled! “The stoat who got his eye struck out is smarter than ye’! Actin’ all high and moighty cause ye’ know how tah’-” 

_FFFFSSSSWWWSSH!_

Mardr’s scimitar sliced through the air, severing the tips of the ferret’s whiskers! She jumped back, the split pieces floating to the ground like feathers. No creature had seen the pine marten saunter up! His eyes glowed with anger. He snarled, the best he could, pointing the curved blade at the lot of vermin.

“Shuddup! The lot of ye! Ye all stay away from my bisnezz, or I’ll slay the lot of you…s-startin from ye’ tail!” He had heard his brother say that, with such bile and bite. Thickwhisker fell on top of the sleeping form of Sanicle, the rat didn’t wake. Only their snoring paused for a moment before continuing to fill the air.

“I will, Mardr! We don’t even know whats in ya’ bag!” Thickwhisker whimpered. Mooneye hid behind Grittail, his tail left in the open.

Mardr put his footpaw on a stone, hoping to minimize the pine marten’s difference in height between the lot of them. “I don’t care if ye lot know or not, just don’t touch it! I’ll cut off ye’ paws! I-I’ll…” He eyed the tail of Mooneye.

 _Swish_!

The pine marten struck, nipping the tip of the stoat’s tail! Mooneye yelped and jumped, holding his tail in his paw. Only fur had been cut, flat and even as the horizon line!

“I’ll cut ye’ tails off faster than I cut his!” Mardr barked.

“O-of course, Mardr, I’d never go near ye’ thingos!” Mooneye blubbered. An inch or two left and the poor stoat would have had half a tail!

“Ye’ heard ‘em! Just go to bed already.” Grittail said, his eyes creasing agitated. Mardr glared at the rat, before sheathing his blade. He seemed to melt into the shadows, barely a footstep heard. How did his brother yell so much? The pine marten’s throat felt dry.

He idled himself in sorting his treasures. Kitchen knives, a rusty hammer, gold-trimmed spectacles, window poles, wooden staves made for mice hands, a mouse’s shortbow with a broken string, iron arrowheads, and a wooden sword. It was garbage! These damned bumpkins barely had a weapon between them. Not even a sling, things children could make!

Still, Mardr wrapped himself around his loot, the beginnings of a horde. His dreams were filled with armies, of warlords, of squirrels wielding axes. Another nightmare.


	4. Meeting a Saint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm continues on outside, while inside Salamandastron hares eat and scoff and dance amongst the visiting creatures.

** 4 **

The whoops and hollers of hares bounced off the walls of the inside of Salamandastron. A considerable portion of the young hares had volunteered their seating up to guests, leaving a number of them free to whoop and dance to mandolins and hardee gurdees (A type of accordion favored by a bright young haremaiden before the Long Patrol existed). Overall, it was a fine show for those eating, many a crumb flying when a dancer would slip and fall or tickle the whiskers of babes and sweep them up into the flurry.

The hearty clapping of Pinebuck’s paws were the most audible of any, shaking silverware around with every heavy smack against each other. A good-sized bowl of vegetable soup sat in front of the badger, edged by golden-crusted soft bread for soaking broth, small grilled fish, and raspberry turnovers that dribbled with their red filling.

The hares of Salamandastron moved serving plates like clockwork, never letting one rest for long. Hares were known for large appetites, though no beast knew if it was the active Long Patrol lifestyle or a simple, pure enjoyment of food. It was all simple fare, food that would fill someone’s stomach for a good long while!

Flaky crusted breads, crunchy green salads, stews that smelled of spices, carrot, radish, cabbage, and seafood caught that morning, fish grilled to perfection just before burning, mint teas that soothe the stomach, and the turnovers! Well baked crust that hid the delicacies of leek n’ onion, potato n’ leek, and, of course, raspberry. The turnovers of Reagan had become a favorite of every beast, especially Pinebuck who believed turnovers to be the most perfect creation. Perhaps they were.

Major Meadowcream sat near the head of the table, amongst the other high ranked Long Patrol hares and Badgerlord Pinebuck. He twirled his whiskers between his coarse paws. The mountain only had about twenty hares, this season they would have thirty as wandering parties returned from summer festivities and traditions. The general of the Long Patrol sat directly next to the badger. General Gerarm Ceannard, an old brown-furred highlander hare nearing the end of his days. The old hare served as an advisor more than anything to Pinebuck, old wisdom for the new age. The two of them held a quiet conversation between eachother.

The hare watched his daughter as she linked arms with another runner, prancing and hopping around in circles, with each rotation the partner changed. It was becoming a whirlwind of movement. The Long Patrol hares had created many a dance over numerous seasons of peacetime, it was just a joyful part of life to Maggery who knew not of vermin hordes and corsairs.

A voice spoke sweetly to Marder, “Maggery seems to be a good dancer, it’s rather shockin’ considerin’ the gel tends to fumble, wot!” Dogwood Duckfontein Meadowcream said from her husband’s other side, she smelled of baking. Her fur was a light brown, her paws standing out as white. The hares whiskers were twirled similar to Maxwell’s, though shorter and more feminine. “Do you want another ladle of soup?”

“Ack, no me doe, can’t have another sip!” He dabbed his mouth edges with his napkin. “Of course, the hare’s a jolly good dancer, wot, you’re her mother, after all!” The hare clicked his tongue, “She needs to be more patient, that’s what it is. Maggery can go along as she wants to a ditty, but not much else. She singed her whiskers in the forge! And you remember when she helped Reagan in the kitchens and all the bread was full of her fur?”

Several nearby hares chuckled, including Dogwood. At the time it had been a frustrating situation, but seasons had made it silly to remember. “Oh hoh, you ol’ charmer!” Dogwood tweaked her husband’s mustache with a spare paw, “The poor gel was shedding her winter fluff and barely noticing! I could barely stay mad at the youngin’!”

Sergeant Clifftop scoffed, “I’d say it was 3 winters worth of hair, wot! It stuffed a fair amount of beds though.” 

“Bah! I can certainly, oh yes, right certainly stay mad at her! Ruined a whole day of baking to feed it tah seagulls!” Atmore said around a mouth of lettuce. She had been the one to throw it to the relentless vultures.

Marder tapped his fist on the table’s surface. “It’s maddening, while she may be a young beast, the lot of them are impatient!” This went forgiven by Pinebuck, who barely was an adult by badger standards.

“Maxwell! You once were young ya’self and had a fire underneath under yah, me buck!” Dogwood scolded. The male hare scowled in response. “I remember when ye’ boxed ol’ Weaseltin because they said my frown looked like a toad!”

Marder’s nose scrunched in chagrin. He cleared his throat, ceasing the snickering of old hares acting like school children. “That was because it was right rude to say so, marm! Besides, shes nothing like me! The lass barely listens when she’s learning the elegant tradition of boxin’.”

Pinebuck tapped his claws on his goblet. The simple gesture lulled the older hares to silence, all of them ceasing eating and turning to the badgerlord. He had been listening the entire time, his attention split between the dancing and the gallery of hares in front of him. He hummed to the melody of footpaws thumping on stone floors.

“Don’t be so hard on the maiden, not every beast is on the same trail, wot! Perhaps not, not at all. She’ll come out on the hilltop; believe me my friend they all do.” Pinebuck turned his head to Clifftop, who’s plate had begun to look like Salamandastron itself. “Clifftop slide that platter over here for me! I won’t let you hares scoff everything again!”

“Oh, allow me, my lord. It is my job tonight. Maxwell, peacetime is the young ones, so they don’t know such grief and can wander from home.” Dogwood said, moving around the table and relocating, refilling, and saving serving dishes. The tucker moves fast in Salamandastron.

Marder snout wrinkled, his ears pinning back. “Perhaps my lord, perhaps. Still, the gel can be roight frustrating, sah! Stubborn as a hedgehog covered in honey stuck to a log!” He stuffed his face with salad, crunching it aggressively.

Pinebuck sniggered, his eyes glittering as he sampled turnovers. “Major Marder, I never knew tah’ be a hare to complain! Certainly not my ears off, wot. Do cheer up, it is a lovely night.” The badgerlord said simply. He picked a turnover, delicately placing the delectable morsel into the paws of a hogbabe, one named Thumble, in his lap before choosing his own. The little creature bit into it, smearing leek gravy on his face.

The hare huffed, his mustache twitching. “Yes, my lord. Do forgive me, sah. I don’t mean to be fumin’ at the table.”

“Nothin’ to forgive, sah!” Atmore said.

“Nothin’ to forgive, at all.” Pinebuck agreed. “Let it roll out like the waves.”

“Nathin’ tah fagive!” Thumble repeated, through mouthfuls of potato.

Marder nodded, getting up. “Aye. I fear I’ve scoffed myself to exhaustion now, a good night to yah all.” Agreements and returns followed, after which the old hare hopped up the stairs with heaviness to his steps.

Dogwood cleaned the babies face with a rag, his little snout trying to dodge. “Do excuse Maxwell, my lord. The hare’s been a tad wrung lately.”

Gerarm Ceannard shifted, his bones weary and tired. His voice was guttural, as if he were speaking from his very heart. “Es the storm, lass. Makes anybeast tense. Indeed, ‘e does.” The old hare widened his eyes, “Just lissen to it, lass, ye’ can still ‘ear it!”

Behind the music, the stamping of paws, the jolly guffaws, and noise Dogwood could barely hear the curtain of rain on the outside of the mountain. It sounded like an entire ocean falling from the sky.

“ **Do the Mountain Guardian’s Spring**!” Pinebuck bellowed, as the dancers song began to end. The request boomed throughout the room; the badger had been a little too enthused. Dogwood jumped! She had been drawn in by Gerarm’s tone. The haremaid barely kept her paws on the platter before it fell to the ground!

Gerarm chuckled, his face lighting up with hare delight as his shaggy old fur shook. He laughed until he began to cough throughout his entire frame.

“A- ah’m very sorry bairn, Ah couldn’t help mahself, wot!”

Pinebuck blinked, his large head moving from Gerarm to Dogwood, “…Did I scare the gel?”

“You shouldn’t try to scare maids like that, ye old crust! Ye’ had me all pulled in on your little hook!” The haremaid prodded the old hares chest. She huffed. “Ye’ can forget having seconds now!”

“Oh come on! Ai’ll starve!” Gerarm whined. It fell on deaf ears as Dogwood sauntered off.

“Yeh! Do da Muntoin Goodeean’s Sproing!” repeated the hogbabe in Pinebuck’s lap. Thimble, another hogbabe, was too busy listening to the hares converse to repeat after his brother. Their accents were humorous to the little hedgehog, he’d surely be repeating “Wot!” for days to come.

* * *

The request of Pinebuck was quickly fulfilled, the jaunty tune of the mandolin being followed by the stamping of footpaws as hares jumped. The steps were heavy to mimic the paws of a badgerlord. Big steps to make fun of the badgers, large creatures with bountiful weight!

Maggery grinned, following suite with the others as the hares circled and spun and made a ring with their footpaws stamping on the floor. As the tune got quicker, they grabbed other creatures and they joined in the heavy bouncing. Hares, mice, hedgehogs, and squirrels spun together in the banquet hall of Salamandastron, faster and faster as the mandolin strings were plucked!

The haremaid tightly held the paw of a little mousebabe, who giggled as his footpaws left the ground everytime all the dancers bounced. Fearful the little dibbun was going to tumble and go rolling across the stone floor, she forgot about her own paws! One slipped under the other, catching Maggery’s ankles in a sweep! She tumbled, nearly dragging the mousebabe and the unlucky creatures near her to the ground. The haremaid rolled on the cool stone until she was paws over head! Fortune seemed to favor her as her bottom struck the soft stomach of a hedgehog instead of the prickly back of another.

Maggery kicked the air out of the hedgehog upon impact. The weight of a full-grown hare throwing itself into anybeast would do the same. It took both a moment to gather themselves.

“Excuse me, are ye, um, are ye’ okay, miss?” He pushed the hares paws, forcing Maggery to roll backward onto her behind. The mousebabe had decided to follow suit, bumping into Maggery ‘s backside after tumbling across the floor to his own entertainment. The instruments had started back up again, the dancers resuming minus a hare and a tiny mouse.

“What a flippin’ tumble, wot! Some villun must have tripped me!” Maggery puttered, dizziness blurring her vision. Her pair of long ears were grabbed a large striped paw, pulling her upright on her paws. Pinebuck held the mousebabe in the other, being crawled on by other dibbuns.

“’Fraid not, young Maggery. The villun would be you! Better to not box yourself over such things.” The badger guffawed, releasing her ears as she shot a paw out at him.

“Ah, bully! Come on, put yore paws up! I won’t have no beast making me look the fool!” The haremaid jumped from paw to paw, still in time to the music, shadowboxing at the badger. The babes hanging onto him watched her with wonderment, despite her lackluster boxing form. It had far too many openings plainly seen by the other hares, but small babes would not know that, only that there was a ripe young boxing hare in front of them in eager fighting stance.

The hedgehog spoke up, “Is true! You tripped yourself’, I watched ye do it then fumble over here.” He looked down at his footpaws, “I would of tried to catch ye but…oh dear, I was worried about trippin’ myself round all those folk! Would have been roight silly if I did and … you got, well, pricked.”

Pinebuck barely noticed as the haremaid pelted his large paw with swift, light jabs to the center pad. The badger knew the hare was playing afterall. No Long Patrol hare of Salamandastron would dare truthfully harm the standing badgerlord. “Listen to St. John, Maggery, when a saint whispers in your ear you best listen, wot! That’s fine thinking, young hedge. A hare can take a tumble or two, ‘pecially when it’s their own doing.”

St. John was surprised, a badgerlord knowing a simple farmer’s sons name? How unexpected! His spikes bristled with shock and delight! A strange pride filled the hedgehog. “Y-yah’ know my name, Pinelord, oh my, I mean Pinebuck… My lord?”

Pinebuck smiled at the young hedgehog. It contained the warmest of the summer season, creasing his eyes small. What an honest, practical hedgehog, as most hedgehogs were. St. John spoke what he saw simply, with a plain sense to his words.

“Of course, I do.” The badger said “What kind of badgerlord would I be if I didn’t know the creatures around my simple mountain? Your father did give me a lovely wreath as well last season, morning glory and wild dandelion! It does look lovely above my little hearth.”

St. John beamed, from snout to tail, acting like one of the babes on Pinebuck’s back. He did a shuffle of excitement. “My father’s making yah a new one, though this storm is certainly going to…upset him for a bit.”

Maggery sidled in front of the hedgehog, speaking to him directly. Pinebuck’s paw was soon filled by another young babe wishing to be held. The badger leveled his face at the haremaid’s back. “If yore a saint, wot, can you fix my whiskers? Somebeast burnt them off in the bally forge!”

“You burnt them off in the forge, gel.” Pinebuck replied simply behind her.

The hedgehog’s ears twitched, “No, no! My mother just…liked the sound of it after she visited Saint Ninian’s!” He tweaked his own whiskers. “You could cut the other side, tah’ make it even.”

The haremaid threw her paws up, “And trounce around with barely a whisker to my lip, I think not! I’d look like a fool, I might as well get a belled hat, and pointed shoes at that point! Roam the countryside as a minstrel! Waste my days away singing and bellowing about soups and scones and how I lost my whiskers to a pike! I bally think not!”

“You would look rather nice in a belled hat, Maggery.” Pinebuck said. Maggery shot a glare at the badger.

“What even is a saint?” St. John asked. He really did not know, as much as someone named John would know what exactly a John is.

 _Thunk, Thunk, Thunk._ Maggery thumped her footpaw in thought. She handled the brass Long Patrol medallion draped around her neck. “I…thought it was a protective spirit, that guards the hallowed halls with a ghostly blade.”

Pinebuck spoke, a dibbun hanging from his snout. “I thought it was a type of cabbage or a flower, wot?”

St. John lifted the babe from Pinebuck’s nose, worried over the possible fall. It would be a good 5 or 6 feet to the ground. This received a hearty thank you from the badger. “I don’t have a blade, or hallowed halls I’m afraid. I’m not a plant either, I’d be in my father’s garden if I were. I’m Saint John, Saint John Spurrspike the hedgehog.”

Maggery took the creatures paw, shaking it heartedly, as he held onto the mousebabe in the other. The simple hedgehog had not meant as an introduction, but it served as one to the leveret who had little to no idea who he was. “A pleasure to be met, chap! I’m Maggery, Maggery McHathery Meadowcream, Runner of the 2nd troop… squad…what ever it is blazin’ called!”

His spines shook and rattled as she gripped his paw. The hare was easily a head taller than him, not to mention the strength she had despite her lean upper body. His paw felt like it was being broken! St. John wiggled it out of her grip, but not before returning the handshake as was polite.

“Oh, yes, of course. I’ve seen yah’ running outside the mountain, I don’t know how yah’ go over those dunes, I rolled down every single one! I’ve only been here one other time I’m afraid, when I was just a little pin cushion.”

Pinebuck chuckled, “Yes, I remember you. I was young myself. Your father helped us plant the orchard in the south that day. A good favor it was, considering most of my hares don’t know which end of the sprout goes into the ground.” The badger began to wonder, “Hmm…we best check on that grove next sunrise, I’ll tell Clifftop in the morn.”

The haremaidens nose twitched eagerly, “I’ll tell him right now, Pinebuck. Besides, I want some of that scoff before it’s disappeared again! You blink and the victuals have walked off into some rotters mouth!”

The badger looked at her, “You better jog then, bound over before it goes missing!”

“Aye, sah!” she replied, several babes following her coat tails as she prattled off.

Pinebuck and St. John continued to talk, about the forest around them, as the badger was always curious about his surrounding creatures, along with the rivers, the produce John’s father was growing, and what the coming season would bring. The warm days of Summer would soon turn to chilly Autumn afternoons when crops grow heavy and fruitful.

St. John peered up at the badger, “May I ask you a favor, my lord?”

Pinebuck was curious, his eyebrows raising excitedly. “Of course, anything for a Spurrspike! Mostly anything. Now whisper it in my ear, makes it more exciting, wot.”

The badgerlords eyes widened as the hedgehog spoke into his ear, under the bouncing strings of the music and the thumping feet of dancers. The two discussed further over plates of walnut cheese, and cordials that dared not compare to those of the hedgehog’s uncle. Talking, along with eating, dancing, and listening to Maggery try to remember legend, soon enough turned to napping for most beasts.

As the night deepened, the storm shortened. It bore way to the dark blue sky that would turn to the golden rays of dawn, exposing the countryside to the early mentions of Fall. 


	5. A Squirrelmaiden from the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange squirrel from the North returns to Mossflower, as Roottail finds a warm welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay of this chapter, when you have 3 English classes the energy to write is kinda taken up by them!

** **

** 5 **

Rowan Spurrspike had always been an anxious hedgehog. He was always overreacting. His wife told him so plainly, though she called it “overly cautious” to make him feel better. The chubby hedgehog wrapped in a cloth tunic once believed that some Virginia Creeper on a tree was a giant snake, readying to strike at his children! Another night, he believed that vermin were outside waving swords and axes about, only to be told it was rain dripping onto a metal pot left out. Stormy clouds made his spikes shutter and strange noises made his teeth chatter. Last night’s storm had made the hedgehog so worried his spines wouldn’t go down.

It was why the hedgehog was a farmer, soil and seeds were nothing to worry about. The worst they did was wilt. He grew vegetables next to his little home in Mossflower, along with fruit trees that would soon grow heavy with autumn’s gifts. Flowers he nurtured like celandine, trefoil, pansy, daffodil, and especially dandelion made his face _glow_ with pride when his wife smiled. Afterall, she was his Dandylion.

Mossflower Woods twinkled in the morning sunrise, coated with a fresh coat of dew from the night storm that dripped off every leaf and edge. The ground was coated with mud, mixed with twigs, branches, leaves, and all other sorts of debris. Birdsong of sparrows and thrush wafted on the young breeze.

The woodland relished in the calm after the storm, however Rowan could not. The hedgehog nearly fainted from shock upon seeing his fields! Stalks and vines were thrown onto the ground broken, produce flown from its stem, bruised, sad. The only things that survived were the roots and tubers, that sat snugly in the wet soil.

A thrush watched curiously from a branch as the hedgehog got to work cleaning his field. Rowan dabbed his eyes, his prideful garden tarnished, before he got his paws dirty.

“Is a pity that storm did this, but you lot will make good food for the new seasons harvest. Cycle it back into the ground, that’s the way!” Rowan said, kindly placing the favorable produce in a bucket. The rest were left to compost and depress into the ground. Nothing wasted, any vegetable can be put into a nice soup. The hedgehog sighed wearily, “I’ll just have to ready the seeds now.”

Dandylion spoke from the windowsill. A branch had shattered the glass, but nothing that could not be fixed quickly. “They’re in the cellar, dear. I stuffed them in there so they wouldn’t get wet.” The sounds of two hogbabes running loose around the house could be heard behind her, followed by St. John.

Rowan grinned, proud of his hogwife. “Aren’t you a clever one! Better you, I’m sure not!” The hedgehog had not even considered the possibility. He handed off the bucket to her. “Be back before ya’ blink, my love.”

The Spurrspikes cellar was dug under a large oak tree, with a heavy door nestled under the roots at the base of a short ramp. It was full of preserves, old furniture, and, now, seeds that Rowan had dried and sorted for the new season. Typically, the door was shut tight and held itself closed due to its weight with fastening on the outside. However, today it stood open as an empty field. The latch lay broken off the wood on the muddy ground.

_Creeeaaakkk_

It opened wider as the wind blew against it, after flowing between the hedgehogs spines. The inside of it was dark, even as the sunlight filtered shyly in. Rowan stood at the peak of the ramp looking down. He felt his spines shaking, which moved to his whiskers, then his paws that refused to take a step forward! Oh no, no, no. What if some vermin had gotten in there? A lizard, a wildcat ready to strike. Most certainly!

The hedgehog jumped as a shadow moved within! Though, it may just have been his entire body shaking. Rowan’s spines shot up and he turned on his heel, his heart pounding with fear. He screamed, and yelled, and panicked, jumping from paw to paw across the woodland. “ **Help**! Somebeast! Help! Help! Vermin, Wildcats in my cellar!”

* * *

Maggery Meadowcream stamped through the woods, followed behind by the hedgehog. He had come running out of woodland, howling about wildcats and vermin and lizards hiding beneath!

The haremaid had been sent out that dawnlight, along with other runners, to scout the beach and forest surrounding Salamandastron for any beast in need of help or assistance. Rowan shook fearfully, as if he had seen a ghost rather than a simple shadow.

“You say there’s bally vermin hiding in yore cellar, Rowan?” Maggery asked. The hare knew Rowan had a tendency to over-exaggerate and panic, it was plain enough to see once you met the hedgehog.

He stuttered, “Y-y..yes, I saw them! Moving a-around in there, b-b-barely escaped with me life!” The thrush watching Rowan before was tickled, chirping mockingly before flying off to look for worms coming up to the nice, moist surface. Yes, the bird would find most decadent a feast indeed.

Maggery punched the air, boxing imaginary vermin! “Don’t you worry your spines, I’ll drag the rotter out! I’ll press ‘im and pull ‘im and flounce him good!”

“Well, you don’t have to do all that, Miss”

Dandylion was waiting for them. It was fair, considering she simply heard her husband shriek then watched him run off into the woodland like a mad beast! She tapped him snugly on the snout. “What was I supposed to think, Rowan? You go running off into the woods, screaming about vermin, and leave your poor wife alone!”

Rowan anxiously shuffled his footpaws, “S-sorry dear…I didn’t mean to…”

The hogwife sighed, wiping the sweat from his face with her apron corners. “Then you go and drag poor, sweet, Maggery into this! I swear Rowan, sometimes your just another babe! Tch. Could you check the cellar for him? If you don’t mind, of course.” Dandylion delicately kissed Rowan’s forehead, “Come on, dear, calm down, let your spines fall. The latch just fell off, the nails were rusty!”

Maggery stood straight, her ears included. Her copper medallion let daylight dance over it and the long patrol symbol engraved into the metal. “Of course, Marm!”

The haremaid marched down and threw the cellar door open! Dust flew up from the sudden movement, the doorframe not being properly dusted in nearly a season. She dove in without hesitation, ready to fight. “Come on out! You flippin’ vermin! Thieving Scum!” The darkness swallowed the hare, but only for a moment.

Maggery came stuttering out, nearly tumbling backward on her haunches! She was followed by a squirrel, who looked quite annoyed. Her red fur, dusky as the last leaves of autumn, was dirty and her tail was full of leaves. Her clothes were torn and stained with spots and dregs of black. Her ears poked from under a hat of straw tied to her head by a patterned cloth. The squirrelmaid huffed, pointing accursedly at the hare. She spat out words like a salamander breathing fire!

“ **Whom are thou calling vermin**?! Listen, I am nay vermin, nor any other creature thou subject me as! Thou are a scurvy poltroon to call a gentle maid such things!” She prodded Maggery’s chest with every other word, “Thou come in, stomp on my tail, and have the gall to call me vermin!”

Maggery sputtered, quickly turning to the offensive and pushed the squirrel away from her. “Then who, wot, and why are you!”

The squirrel huffed and poked her chin into the air, as if Maggery was nothing more than a crumb. She had the long eyelashes of a true lass. “Hmph! I am Tressa. Lady Tressa of the Summer.”

Maggery twirled the half of her whiskers that remained. “…It’s Autumn now though.”

Tressa creased her eyes, “Then I’m Lady Tressa of the Autumn.”

“What about in Winter? Or Spring, wot?”

The squirrelmaid ignored the hare. Maggery grumbled.

Dandylion had stopped comforting her husband, for the moment. “Oh, you poor dear, you must have gotten lost in the storm!” She gave a kind pat to the squirrel’s paw, “Bless barley that you don’t look hurt.”

Tressa latched onto the hedgehog’s paws. “The storm was a frightful gale; I tripped over yonder root and fell into the cellar. I swear I’m not a common thief, like the longears says!”

Longears! Maggery was blustered! **Thunk**! Her footpaw smacked the ground gruffly.

Dandylion had to stop herself from chuckling, seeing Tressa use the same tactics as a child trying to avoid blame. The hedgehog spoke gently. “Of course, you aren’t dear, You just needed some place dry for the night. If you made your way up a bit further and earlier, we would have let you in!”

Rowan had calmed down a fair bit. “Of course, we would of! You just gave me a…bit of a fright is all.”

Maggery said, under her breath, “Full blown panic, wot.”

Dandylion said, “You come up to the house and we’ll make you some tea and get you cleaned up, Tressa.”

Maggery’s ear perked at the mention. Tressa allowed the hedgehogs to lead her away, soothing with reassurances like a babe. The hare followed behind them all, her face rigid with annoyance.

* * *

The tree edges of Mossflower wood shone with the gentle light of morning, the dew dripping off the leaves onto the damp ground below. Even if the storm had left, the remnants of it still hung and remained. Skipper Barklen pushed through the brush; his fur sprinkled with water. Roottail following closely behind.

“Come on, It’s just up ahead, mostly mate. You remember Holt Riverford? The one nestle’ in between a pair of trees that twisted themselves around eachother.” Skipper asked, knowing full well the answer.

“Aye, course I do.” Roottail replied, “I know every holt from Salamandastron to… whateva’s east of Mossflower.”

“What’s east of Mossflower is of no use to us, even if you knew. Nothing but coast until you get in the northlands.”

“Bah, The northlands is no place for me. Don’t know why any beast would choose the cold mountains, of all places.”

Skipper shrugged, “Ye’ get used to it. I know some creatures can’t stand Mossflower in the summer, so they move northwar’ until the leaves start to fall. Then they move again in the winter.”

“Far too much movin’ for me, mate” Roottail scoffed.

As any good old otter knows, a well-placed holt is always near a river. The pair of them had been following the stream the entire morning from the old holt of Roottail’s. With a simple nod from Skipper, the pair of them slipped silently into the water. They swam with the current, agile as any fish might be. The tranquility and coolness of the waters, not yet heated by the warm sunlight, was a wonderful respite for Roottail. Finding his mind wandering, he allowed the current to carry him along. The shadows of the emerald brush moved across the water surface, swaying with the water.

Roottail allowed himself to drift, a song rolling off his mind and tongue.

“ _The waters of the river carry me homebound,_

_They’ve carried me across tah’ sea._

_Every wave to me is a brudder,_

_Every tide a sistah’ to thee._

_For while I may be far from home now,_

_The water’s another house for me,_

_And It’ll carry me home to thee-”_

BUNK!

Roottail was carried headfast into wood! The otter reeled to the surface. A barrel teetered and bobbed in the water, stirred by the collision. He scowled, “What’s it, doing ‘ere?”

Barklen’s head peeked out of the water, “Must have washed off a ship durin’ the storm.”

“Blasted thing nearly gave me a lump!” Roottail flipped in the water onto his backside and kicked it with both paws roughly. It moved through water into another current and was carried away out of sight.

Barklen grimaced, “Weren’t you curious what was inside?”

“Not really, I’m not one to be lookin’ where my snout isn’t born.” His brother replied,

“What if there were some beast trappe’ in there?” Barklen said.

“Well, suppose there is” Roottail offered, “I suppose they want to be in there, as any beast who gets in a barrel perfectly knows what they’re getting into. Then it’s awful rude of me to not suppose they want to be in there and wake them up when they perfectly want to be insoide it. I’d rather let them sleep an’ be left to wonder than wake them up then.”

Barklen simply stared at Roottail, before splashing water onto the bigger otter with a swift slap of his rudder. He hauled himself onto shore.

“Come on yah’ barnacle, It’s just over that hill.” He said. Roottail grumbled in response, dragging himself onto the bank before tottering off after his Skipper. The moment the big otter bounded over the hill, the entire grove lit up with noise.

“ **Roottail!** ”

From beneath a pair of trees twisted around each other until the canopies became one, a surge of otters came out each gathering around Skipper Barklen. The otter leader looked proud, able to show his brother such a welcome.

Roottail nearly rolled down the hill as he bounded down it. “My, isn’t this a nice welcome for some old seadog?” He chuckled, slapping the ground with his rudder. The otters around him felt the rumble from it shoot up through their footpaws!

Skipper put his paw on his back, “Ye aren’t any ol’ seadog you lump! Yore a Dawntide!”

The younger otters, especially the little ones, were amazed by his size, while some of the older ones seemed simply happy in his presence after many seasons of him gone, even if it was just for an afternoon or season. Roottail couldn’t deny it felt nice to be in ottercrew company again. There is a simple joy in being remembered.

* * *

From the moment Dandylion sat Tressa and Maggery down at her table, she had been talking to them about whatever came to her mind as she made Elderyberry tea. She had started talking about the storm, especially how big it was as what happens when things are big, then made it to the shrews that live down the road, and somehow had found her way to discussing the finer points of home design.

“Really. Moles must get tired of living underground at some point, I would get bored looking at a dirt ceiling and walls all day. Nothing to do but sweep until you don’t have a house no more because you’ve swept it all up.” Dandylion clicked her tongue, “Though I suppose I’m not a mole.”

Maggery was utterly bored by this. She entertained herself by letting the little hogbabes whisper in her ears, their voices mimicking the elders of the Long Patrol. The young creatures were utterly delighted a hare appeared to agree with their mock accents. The hare found their sentences odd.

Tressa seemed unbothered, “’Em are right snug and warm in Winter. The dust makes it easy for thou to catch a cold, though.” Behind the squirrel, Saint John Spurrspike combed through her tail, with a carved wooden comb, picking out leaves and branches from the mass of fur. He didn’t mind, the squirrel smelled faintly of rain.

The hedgemother clicked her tongue again, “I suppose, I suppose.”

Saint John spoke up, “How do you know Tressa? Yore a squirrel, not a mole or a badger. I thought squirrels preferred above ground.” He chose not to tell the maiden he had found a rather large beetle in her fur, nor did he say he ate it. It would simply upset her.

The squirrelmaid replied simply, “It’s not tha’ hard to find a mole ‘ole when you’re traveling. I roamed the entire Northland border. Thy mole enjoys the rocky cregs.”

“Why only the border?” Saint John asked, innocently.

“The wolves, fearsome beast they are. Warlords, and slavers, and vermin hordes rule the land up there, not a place to go hither.”

“W-wolves?”

The squirrelmaid didn’t honor his question with an answer, “Of course, there’s patches of life, there always is. Small hovels, shrew camps, otter holts, and fox dens. Badger trees and squirrel eves, and mole ‘oles, like I said.”

Maggery raised her head, only to ask, “Wot’s a squirrel eve?”

Tressa fluttered her eyelashes, “I needed a rhyme, longears.”

“Stop callin’ me that, wot!”.

“Hush, Maggery! Yore supposed to be a long patrol hare.” Dandylion placed a cup of steaming tea in front of the hare, then in front of the squirrelmaid. It smelled of elderberries, and honey. Maggery grumbled in response, her ears flattening.

The squirrelmaid leaned closer to the hare, her long eyelashes fluttering again. “Tell me, longears, about yonder mountain of fire. Does it really house salamanders and dragons?” She held her chin up in her paw, “Does Sal-ah-mon-doon-stroon hold up to legend?”

Maggery looked proud talking about the mountain, “Its pronounced Sal-ah-mon-day-stron. Did that storm rattle yore brain? Salamandastron has a badgerlord and the Long Patrol, not a dragon or sally-manders, wot!”

Saint John spoke, apprehensively, as Maggery had returned to listening to the eager talking of his younger siblings. The haremaid seemed more annoyed now. “W-Would you take her with you when you go back to Salamandastron? The badgerlord will know what to do with her, I think…”

A moment passed, before Maggery thumped the floor with her foot paw and stood straight up. John’s spikes spurred upright! “Absolutely! I need to talk to my father right now, come on!” Perhaps the hogbabes had mimicked the hares _too_ perfectly.


End file.
